Chapter 02 (Part 02)

ValeCorp was even colder on a Monday morning.

The lobby was busy now, filled with employees starting their week. Everyone looked too awake. Too polished. Like they'd never experienced the universal horror of a snoozed alarm or a forgotten lunch or a coffee spill on a fresh shirt. Their movements were precise, purposeful. No wasted energy. No hesitation.

These were people who belonged.

I adjusted the strap of my bag and squared my shoulders, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel. I walked past the front desk, scanning the shiny black pass Kira had handed me on Friday. The terminal beeped, a green light flashing in acceptance.

The blonde receptionist barely spared me a glance, her attention divided between her computer and a sleek phone pressed to her ear.

"Take the private elevator to the top floor," she said during a pause in her conversation, returning her focus to her screen. "He doesn't like waiting."

I didn't need to ask who he was. The way she said "he"—like a proper noun, like a force of nature rather than a person—made it clear.

I took the elevator alone again. Somehow it felt even quieter this time, as if the very air knew what awaited me. The digital numbers climbed higher and higher, and with each passing floor, I could feel my resolve thinning, stretching like taffy until it threatened to snap.

This is fine, I told myself, the mantra repeating with each illuminated number. This is just a job. He's just a man.

Powerful, yes. Intimidating, certainly. But still human, still flesh and blood, still susceptible to the same laws of physics and biology as the rest of us.

The elevator reached the top floor, slowing with a gentle deceleration that was barely perceptible. The doors opened with a whisper.

And my breath caught.

The top floor was already humming with activity, despite the early hour. Two men in sharp suits passed me without so much as a nod, deep in conversation about quarterly projections and market variables. A woman in red heels typed furiously at her tablet while balancing a stack of folders under one arm. The air seemed charged with purpose, with urgency.

The blonde from before—who I now knew was the CEO's executive coordinator—looked up at me from her desk. Today she wore a sleek gray dress that matched the walls, her hair once again pulled into that severe bun. Not a strand out of place. Not a moment wasted.

"You're early," she said, glancing at the time displayed on her monitor. "He likes that."

The simple statement shouldn't have sent a flutter of relief through me, but it did. One small point in my favor.

Before I could respond, she stood and handed me a small, silver keycard, the same kind she'd used to grant me access on Friday. "This is your permanent badge. You'll be sitting in the adjoining office just outside his."

I blinked, processing this information. "Adjoining?"

She didn't elaborate. Just walked to a glass door a few feet from her desk and held it open for me, clearly expecting me to follow. Her efficiency was almost robotic, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of what might have been sympathy—that hinted at humanity underneath the polished exterior.

And there it was.

My office.

It was... beautiful. Smaller than his, of course, but just as sleek. Dark wood desk with clean lines and minimal ornamentation. Slim black monitor with dual screens. A matching chair that looked more comfortable than anything in my apartment. A floor-to-ceiling window that offered a sweeping view of the city below, buildings catching the early morning light like facets of a massive, urban geode.

A second door stood across from mine, closed tight.

His door.

The barrier between our worlds.

I stepped inside and gently set my bag down on the desk, careful not to disturb the perfect arrangement of supplies already laid out: pens, notepads, a sleek desk organizer, even a small potted plant that added the only touch of color to the monochromatic space.

For a second, I stood still—letting it all soak in. The quiet hum of the air conditioning. The faint scent of lemon polish and something else, something subtly masculine that I couldn't quite identify. The weight of the badge in my palm.

I worked here now.

This was real.

"You're not going to faint, are you?"

The voice came from behind me—low, dry, and unmistakably male. It carried a hint of impatience, as if my moment of reflection was an inconvenience.

I spun around, heart leaping into my throat.

He was standing in the doorway between our offices, one shoulder propped against the frame. I hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't sensed his presence until he spoke.

Killian Vale.

And somehow, he looked even colder in daylight.

The morning sun streaming through the windows did nothing to warm his features. If anything, it cast them in sharper relief, highlighting the angles of his face, the intensity of his gaze. His suit was charcoal today, a shade darker than the walls. His shirt slate gray, a perfect complement to his eyes. He wore no tie again, but it didn't matter—he had presence. The kind of presence that turned rooms silent. That commanded attention without effort.

His gaze swept over me like I was a spreadsheet he didn't quite trust, assessing, calculating, looking for errors.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "No, sir. I'm fine."

"You won't last if you lie."

The statement hung between us, simple and devastating. I flushed, instantly regretting everything I'd ever said or thought or done that had led me to this moment. This job. This man.

He stepped inside without invitation, crossing the threshold into my space with the casual confidence of someone who owned not just the building but the air within it. He moved like a predator, economical and precise, no wasted motion.

"Let me be clear, Miss Quinn. I don't tolerate mistakes. I don't like excuses. And I have no interest in anyone's personal life. You're here to make my life easier. If you can't do that—" he gestured toward the door we'd entered through, "—there's the elevator."

His words were clinical. Mechanical. Each one delivered with the precision of a surgeon's blade.

But his eyes... they lingered. Like he was memorizing how I stood. How I responded. Testing to see if I'd crack under the pressure, if I'd wilt beneath that arctic gaze.

I straightened my shoulders, lifting my chin slightly. "Understood."

A flicker of something crossed his face—so brief I might have imagined it. Approval? Surprise? It was gone before I could decipher it.

He turned toward the door that connected our offices. "Your tasks for the morning are in your inbox. Don't speak to me unless it's urgent."

"Understood," I repeated, quieter this time.

He paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame. Then, without looking back, he said—

"And stop looking so nervous. It's annoying."

The door shut with a click that seemed to echo in the suddenly empty room.

I stared at the space he'd just occupied, heart thundering, face burning with a complicated mixture of embarrassment and indignation.

Okay, then.

So it begins.

I sank into the chair behind my desk, its soft leather conforming to my body in a way that felt almost apologetic after that encounter. The computer screen lit up at my touch, requesting login credentials that had been emailed to me over the weekend. I typed them in, forcing my fingers to remain steady despite the tremor that wanted to overtake them.

The ValeCorp logo appeared, sleek and minimalist, then gave way to a desktop more organized than my entire life. And there it was—my inbox, already filled with tasks for the day. I clicked on the first one, my eyes scanning the detailed instructions for coordinating a conference call with Tokyo.

I took a deep breath, then another.

This was just a job. Just a desk. Just a man behind a door.

I could do this.

I had to.

The alternative wasn't an option. Not with rent due in two weeks. Not with Milo's medication costing more each month. Not with the weight of our shared life resting on my shoulders like a familiar burden.

I straightened my blouse, adjusted my posture, and began to work.

Killian Vale might be cold, demanding, and apparently allergic to basic courtesy.

But I was determined.

And determination had gotten me this far.

It would have to be enough.